Shattered Shield
by BlueRiverSteel
Summary: When a witch targets a young Sam Winchester, the results are unexpected-but lethal. Pre-series, plenty of brotherly love and probably some h/c before all's said and done. Sam is 13, Dean is 17.


**Chapter One**

 **Disclaimer:** They're not mine! I just like to play in the sandbox.

 **A/N:** Yeah, I should be working on _Livin' On A Prayer_. But I have a plot bunny backed by a friendly challenge from my gals to write a pre-series fic. What's a girl to do?

This, of course.

Enjoy!

* * *

 _Sam Winchester, Fireman._

 _Sam Winchester, Lawyer._

 _Sam Winchester, Doctor._

 _Sam Winchester, Professor?_

Sam suckled dried blood from his finger—courtesy of a stinging paper cut he'd acquired earlier that day going over some extra credit work with Miss Morgan—as he strode through the halls at the end of a very long Thursday. They'd had meetings with a guidance counselor today, since next year would be the first year of high school; and the pleasant man, Mr. Terrence, had set Sam thinking, something Dean claimed he did far too much as it was.

He hadn't really thought about it much, seriously; but apparently he, Sam Winchester, had _options_. Like, he could choose what to do with the rest of his life. Such a choice would determine what he did in high school and where he went to college, but…he could do that. He didn't have to be his Dad. Or Dean.

It was oddly freeing, that realization.

He wasn't familiar enough with Harrison Middle School yet to have any friends to greet, though a couple of the nicer kids waved as he walked past; but his way was mostly clear to the entrance, and from there, out to the black Impala he knew was waiting for him in the parking lot.

His lips curled up in a small smile; Dad had left for a one-man hunt yesterday—an occurrence that was becoming more and more rare now that Dean was hunting full time—and left both boys on their own with the usual exhortation for Dean to _take care of Sammy_ and for Sam to _mind your brother, boy_. Sam might've normally bristled at the order, but he was too busy being thrilled at the prospect of a few days alone with his older brother. He and Dad had been butting heads a bit too often for Sam's comfort lately; it wasn't something he did on purpose—god knew he _hated_ fighting with his dad—but he was beginning to see things, think things, wonder about things that made his blood boil, and he couldn't seem to control his mouth once it got going.

Things like the fact that Dad had not only allowed Dean to drop out of high school _less than a year before graduation_ , but had, in fact, encouraged it. He was _proud_ of Dean for dropping out, had taken him out for some father-son bonding at the local roadhouse when he found out, and had been keeping Dean busy full-time with hunting and making contacts and getting involved in the "community" ever since; all with a cheer and gusto that tweaked Sam's gullet.

Fathers weren't supposed to urge their sons to replace a good education with an alarmingly-dangerous job that literally paid _shit_. They weren't supposed to slap their sons on the back when they came home with a two hundred dollar haul after hustling pool or counting cards that night. They weren't supposed to take their seventeen-year-old sons drinking with a fake ID at dingy bars to celebrate things like becoming a high-school dropout.

Dean could have done it, too, that was the most frustrating part. His older brother, for some unfathomable reason, hid it well, but Sam knew the truth: Dean was every bit as smart as he. Dean could easily have finished high school, could easily have gotten into college, could have been literally _anything_ but a hunter fighting in a crusade that wasn't even his.

He could do anything, could Dean. _Be_ anything.

But he chose this instead: the constant struggle to get by, the frequent—and sometimes, horrific—injuries, the credit card scams, the lies, the isolation, the lack of anything resembling a _good future_.

And Dad _celebrated_ it.

It made Sam mad. And while he was very good at communicating his displeasure, he knew he wasn't very good at communicating his _reasoning_ —which was probably why Dad just pushed harder, while Dean defended him with phrases like _he's just a kid, Dad_ , and _I'll bring him around, don't worry._

Phrases said for Dad's benefit only, since Dean never really did try to talk Sam out of his burgeoning independent perspectives, simply tried to teach him to present them in better ways.

Sam still wasn't any good at it.

But for the next four days, he didn't have to worry about it. It was just him and Dean, and the weekend coming up. Sure, they had training (Dad's _orders_ , and Dean wasn't about to disobey), but there'd still be plenty of time for fun; Dean had promised they'd go swimming at the local lake beach, and Sam had earned a little money from mowing lawns in their last town—money he intended to use on Dean somehow, since he was rapidly becoming more aware of exactly how much Dean had sacrificed for him while they were growing up.

He was thirteen, not stupid.

Sam grinned and waved as the Impala came into view through the loosening knot of students jostling their way out the metal double doors of the school. He could see Dean's profile in the driver's seat, watching for him, white teeth flashing as he gave Sam a smile. The younger Winchester ran to the car, grinning as the passenger door opened with that familiar creak of hinges.

"Hi, Dean!"

"Hey, kiddo," Dean greeted, ruffling Sam's floppy hair. Sam ducked away, banging his head on the window and making Dean laugh; not out of any real displeasure for the gesture, but more out of token resistance to the whole _being treated like a kid_ thing. "How was school?"

"Aw, you know," Sam replied flippantly. "Teachers, students, textbooks, lots of words and numbers."

Dean affected a mock shudder. "Sounds like hell."

"Oh it was," Sam agreed. "And our sub for this week and next, Miss Morgan? You won't believe this: she's young _and_ pretty." He paused for effect, fighting back a grin as Dean's ears perked up. "And she likes me. It was _awful_."

Dean laughed out loud at that—his real laugh, the one that made warmth blossom in Sam's chest—and looked approving. "That's my boy, Sammy. Breakin' hearts at thirteen."

Sam laughed too, not seeing any need to hold back.

"So how much homework you got tonight?" Dean asked, and the warmth intensified. Dean always tried to schedule training around homework, tried to make it possible for Sam to do both well.

Dad never bothered.

"Algebra, Literature, Social Studies all have worksheets. I also have an essay to start for Science. We're studying astronomy right now."

"Awesome," Dean smiled, turning smoothly onto the road that would take them to the rented house Dad had moved them into last weekend. "You like that?"

"Love it," Sam smiled. "And the essay should be pretty easy—I know most of the stuff from what I looked up when we started stargazing. Constellations and types of stars and all that."

One side of Dean's lips quirked upward in a half smile. "Geek," he muttered fondly.

Sam stuck his tongue out. "Jerk."

"Bitch."

* * *

The evening was a rather raging success for Sammy, Dean thought. He liked to train before dinner—less chance of throwing it up that way—and since Sam's homework load was fairly light tonight, he started the kid running as soon as they got back to the house. Sam barely grimaced at him before taking off like a shot while Dean kicked pine cones out of the small clearing he planned to use for sparring in the woods out back. It wasn't exactly a thick pad, like they should have used, really; but the underbrush provided slightly more cushion than the hard wood floors inside would.

Sam was back in record time; barely a teen, the kid was still pretty gangly, all arms and legs and big ears covered by rebelliously-long brown hair. As it was, he was slender enough to be fast—faster than Dean, though the elder seldom acknowledged it aloud—so Dean wasn't really surprised to see him back so quick. He clicked the stopwatch dangling from his pocket and grinned.

"Five miles in thirty-three minutes. Not bad, kid." He reached out to ruffle Sam's hair again, but his brother ducked out from under his hand, raising his fists into a defensive position and dropping into a crouch with a grin of his own, challenge in his wide hazel eyes. "Oh, that's how you want to play it?" Dean asked, tossing the stopwatch aside and cracking his neck. "We can do that. Bring it, bitch—"

He gasped as a fist struck his jaw, _hard_. His vision spotted black so he danced backward, blinking furiously to clear it, fighting shock that Sam had actually managed to hit him. Usually, he didn't even let his brother get anywhere _near_ close enough for that.

Also, _god_ , Sammy could pack a punch.

 _You got cocky, Winchester. You deserved that._

When his vision cleared a few blinks later, he laughed at the expression on his little brother's face. Sam looked almost as shocked to have actually _landed_ a punch as Dean was at _getting_ punched. His eyes had gone wide and his fists were slack, though loosely raised to protect his neck—but he was distracted. Dean shook his head and bit back a smile.

"Nice, Sammy," he ground out, hoping to keep the younger focused on his words rather than his body language. "Real good shot, little brother—"

With that, he pounced, aiming a quick punch at Sam's temple. His brother got his defense up in time—barely—and moved to the left, countering with a hook that Dean ducked away from, grabbing Sam's outstretched arm and yanking. The move worked, pulling Sam forward and off balance, stumbling straight past Dean into the opposite side of the small clearing.

Dean disengaged, letting Sam get his bearings, which in hindsight was probably a bad idea.

Sam had been practicing. In _secret_ or something. Because Dean never saw it coming when Sam rushed him and started brushing past his defenses, landing punches with far more ease than he ought to have been able to. Dean gave as good as he got, keeping Sam working for it, but there was no denying the kid was holding his own. He growled. He knew all of Sam's moves, hell, he'd _taught_ him them all; so when the punches kept hitting home, the holds surprising him, the kicks tripping him up, Dean started to get frustrated.

Frustration was bad. Frustration was a distraction.

He barely formulated the thought before Sam's right foot swept his left knee at the same time his little brother's palm struck his shoulder and sent him backward—and since when had Sam gotten strong enough to pull _that_ stunt? Dean landed flat on his back, and Sam followed up; straddled his brother's hips and gripped tight with his thighs, then poised for a strike at Dean's solar plexus, stopping just short of the actual punch. Dean froze, eyes wide.

A solar plexus strike from that angle could _kill_ a man.

Sammy laughed when Dean didn't move—could have moved, probably, Sam was half his size, but didn't—and his face flushed with triumph.

"Gotcha," Sam laughed, echoing the words Dean usually used to signal the end of a fight.

Dean's face betrayed him as his lips cocked up into a grin of his own. Sam had _beat_ him. Fair and square.

Well, as fair and square as street fighting _got_ , anyway.

"Nice job, Sammy," he congratulated, still shocked _that_ had just happened, then shifted below his brother's skinny frame. "Now g'doff."

Sam scrambled off of Dean, unintentionally kneeing him in the side in the process, and Dean pushed the kid firmly enough he landed on his own side on the forest floor, laughing. Dean followed, digging his fingers mercilessly into Sam's ribs until the kid screamed for mercy.

"Dean, stop! Stop, I—I can't…breathe…Dean!"

"Admit it, I'm still your awesome big brother," he commanded with a laugh, moving his dancing fingers up toward Sam's underarms, where he was _really_ ticklish.

"I won! Dean—" gasps, breathless giggles his teenage brother would deny he was even capable of making, "I won—you have to stop….I can't—"

"Say it! 'Dean Winchester is my badass big brother!"

"Dean—okay okay!—Dean Winchester is my badass big brother!"

The two collapsed against fallen leaves and green grass, laughing and gasping for air. They just lay there for several minutes, watching the tree branches sway in the evening breeze, until Sam's growling stomach interrupted the quiet. His little brother laughed again.

God, the kid was eating like a horse these days. He was going to hit a growth spurt soon, Dean suspected.

"Come on, bitch," he slapped Sam in the belly, garnering another laugh and a shove. "Let's get you fed and watered."

He couldn't resist one last hair-ruffle on the way in.

Dean fell asleep that night watching his little brother diligently scribbling away at a piece of paper, textbook open beside him, thinking that this evening had been a raging success for Sammy.

He let the warm pride soothe him into oblivion.

* * *

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